


The Cold Equations

by arrow (esteefee)



Category: due South
Genre: Angst and Humor, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-07-20
Updated: 2007-07-20
Packaged: 2017-10-17 11:14:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/176272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esteefee/pseuds/arrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ray tries to do the math.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Cold Equations

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I know I'm writing too much.
> 
> Now [Podficced](http://www.greatestjournal.com/users/zabira/6577.html) by [](http://zabira.livejournal.com/profile)[**zabira**](http://zabira.livejournal.com/)!

Ray has never been the best at math (except that one semester Stella was in his geometry class) but even he can figure the equations up here in the Areas, as he likes to call them. Cold _plus_ alone _equals_ dead. See? Math is easy.

All except for the dying part. Which he's pretty sure he's going to do any minute now unless Fraser finds a way to get to him fast.

Ray's worked out some other equations on their adventure, such as dry _plus_ socks _equals_ happy feet, and Dief _plus_ field kibble _equals_ stinky farts _squared_ , but his very favorite so far is tiny tent _divided by_ (Ray _plus_ Fraser) _minus_ long johns _equals_ serious-fucking-hotness. Equals Fraser saying Ray's name over and over in this breathless whisper. Equals Ben squirming underneath him, looking up with these shocked eyes as he comes so hard his ass is like an iron trap trying to squeeze the life out of Ray's cock.

Not that Ray minds.

During the day Ray learns other stuff, like how to harness the dogs properly so they don't get hot spots (Ray _plus_ Ben _minus_ sled _equals_ dead) or that it's important to always keep a weather eye on the sky—(Ray _plus_ Fraser _minus_ tent) _times_ blizzard _also equals_ dead. In fact, it's amazing how many fucking things equal dead up here in the Northern Areas.

Including calling them _the Northern Areas_ , since Fraser's evil eye gets more and more hairy every time Ray does it.

"Honestly, Ray, you've been here long enough at this point to get it right."

"Get this—I'm a slow learner, Fraser."

What he doesn't tell Fraser is there are two reasons he still gets it wrong on purpose. The first is, this way he feels like he's a little more in control of this _GIANT FUCKING WASTELAND_ , which is how it should be marked on the map instead of THE NORTHWEST TERRITORIES, because _territories_ implies someone owns them or something, which is obviously totally untrue. Nobody owns this place. It owns _them_. If it doesn't kill them, which—see above equations just for starters.

The second reason Ray doesn't use the right term is a little more mean. He doesn't like it that Fraser loves it up here so goddamned much. It was in the impossible grin on his face from the first second they fell off the plane (Ray insists in his head that they _fell_ , because who in their right mind would jump out of an airplane without a parachute?)

More proof that Fraser loves the Areas—he's loose up here, easy in his body. Fraser walks in snow shoes like he's dancing. Which sounds weird, but isn't. Up-here-Fraser is the guy who rolled next to Ray in their tiny tent and hugged him all night when Ray was shivering. And it wasn't buddy-hugging, neither, which Ray figured out when Fraser's nose started burrowing into his neck the next morning (and another part tried to burrow through two layers of long johns.)

What happens to Up-here-Fraser when they're done with the quest and are back down in Chicago? It's a question Ray tries real hard not to think about, but it floats in his mind like two hard-edged pieces of something that just don't fit and are hurting him when they grate against each other. He brings it up every so often, thinking to wear them smooth.

"Man, I'll bet you'll be glad to have Dief back on an all-donut diet," Ray says when one of Dief's cosmically smelly farts fills the tent.

Fraser just grunts.

Or, when they stop at an outpost and get the news—"Now that the Ice Queen is off playing spy-versus-spy, maybe you'll end up with a cooler boss at the Consulate."

Fraser doesn't even grunt at that one, just gives him an odd look and asks him if he thinks they need more pemmican.

It's not that Ray is stupid, or bad at math. He would have figured it out if the pieces of the equation just didn't _hurt_ so fucking much. Fraser _into_ The Areas _equals_ right. But Ray _plus_ Canada _equals_ not-a-cop and cold _to the factor of N_ (where N _equals_ Nuts.)

So he doesn't think about it. And keeps making these stupid comments as if he can wish it all away, and Ben starts to look sadder and sadder, until finally Ray does it once too often—

"You know, that submarine thing really made you Mr. Popular. Maybe they'll make _you_ the big boss at the Consulate. Except, I bet you'd make yourself stand guard duty anyway."

"Ray." Fraser puts down the little piece of leather strap he's mending (because the guy can't relax even over breakfast) and folds his hands together. Tight, so his gloves are all bunched.

"Yeah, what?" Ray looks away.

"You must realize...I can't...I _won't_ be returning to a post in Chicago." Fraser says it like it's tearing his throat out.

 _Oh_. Fraser isn't coming home. Fraser is staying _here_. A lump of ice hits Ray in the guts. He looks at Fraser's face, at the way it's so thin and still. But Ray can't take him hurting about it, and anyway it's his goddamned fault, isn't it?

"You son of a bitch," Ray says low.

"Ray—surely you knew—"

"I know _shit_ ," Ray yells, getting up and circling the fire. He's so furious he can feel the snow melting under his feet. "Because you _tell_ me shit. You bastard. What the hell we been doing all this time?"

It's easier to pretend he didn't know all along, because it's good to be mad—the ice-ball is melting, too, and all he can feel is pure rage at the stupidity of the universe and Fraser, who was fucking using him when he _knew_ —

"What, you thought you could just get a little action without any strings? That it?"

Fraser looks totally shocked, and then he turns red, but not with embarrassment, oh no.

"I wanted what I could get," he says tightly.

"Yeah? Well, you shouldn't've fucked me if you weren't gonna to keep me."

And that's a perfect exit line, really, so Ray takes it and goes tromping off. He's not wearing his snowshoes, so it's not a very decisive exit, more like a _step-ploosh, step-ploosh_ as he stomps past the dogs and tries to put a little space between him and Fraser.

Not too much, though, because Ray isn't an idiot, and Ray _minus_ Fraser _plus_ wasteland _still equals_ dead, dead and dead.

There's a little bit of a rise, and then a bunch of rocks heaped around a small cavern—kind of pretty. He sits on a rock and contemplates his navel; or, more specifically, how much he will miss having Ben's tongue there, and having him to bitch at and get them into trouble and, _shit_ , he thinks of the two-seven and going back there without Fraser, just to find Vecchio sitting at his desk (except Vecchio is on vacation in Florida, last he heard.) And Ray's thinking about all this stuff instead of the fact his fucking heart is bleeding out in the middle of his chest because he loves Fraser. He loves him. Fraser made him need him, and now he won't let him _have_ him.

It's so goddamned cold.

He hears an approaching _scuff-scuff_ , which means it's been a while and Fraser is coming after him, of course wearing snowshoes, and Ray isn't ready. He stands up and walks over the rise, passing down the back to keep Fraser out of sight in a dumb little game of hide-and-seek.

Ray's standing there, still frozen with the stupidity of everything, the perfect cruelty of the universe, when he hears Fraser come up behind him.

"Ray. _Don't move_ ," Fraser says in this terrible voice, this voice that's dead and too calm and horrified all at once.

Having learned his lesson from last time, Ray doesn't move. But it doesn't fucking matter, because just breathing seems to be enough to make the snow disappear from under his feet, and suddenly he's falling, falling, tumbling and scraping against ice until he comes to a sudden, thudding halt.

He's wedged in tight, almost upright, and his arm is numb, which is bad because it means maybe broken, and there's a little hollow over his head, and a little crack of blue through it, but otherwise it's dark and closed. He's buried.

"Fraser!" he tries to yell, but there's no room to get a good lungful of air to yell with. How's Fraser going to find him?

It's funny, thinking he could just die here anyway, like none of it mattered after all. Like maybe it doesn't. So Fraser was right about taking what you can get, because now Ray gets jack but a face full of snow when he tries to yell again.

And it's all so cold. So cold.

><

He's not sure how long he's been stuck here in the dark, but he starts to hear this scraping sound, cautious and quiet. His first thought is _ice rats_ , and he must be pretty far gone by now because that's just loony.

No, it's Fraser, of course. Found him somehow, is digging down patiently, and all Ray has to do is not die before he gets here.

Ray can do that. He tries to wiggle his toes and can't tell if he succeeds. More snow plops down onto him and he shakes it out of his hair. His hat is long gone, and he's pretty sure his ears have frost-bite. And he still can't breathe so well, but he's not breathing as much, anyway.

One last plop and then _scrape-scrape_ and there's a familiar mitten running over his head.

"Ray?" Fraser's voice is hoarse and soft and scared.

"Yeah. M'here."

"Oh, thank God. Ray, thank _God!_ " And if Ray wasn't totally in la-la land he'd almost suspect Fraser is crying, only Fraser doesn't do that.

Maybe Ben does, though.

The rest is kind of a nightmare jumble of Fraser trying free enough space to reach him, trying to thread something under his arms, which are still trapped, and then Fraser's frantic, hoarse yelling to the team, telling them to _pull, pull, Goddammit_! and Ray has never heard Fraser curse like that. If Ray were in his right mind it would've terrified him, but for some reason it makes him laugh weakly instead, and once they are up and out and clean on top of the snow where they belong, Fraser pulls off his mittens and puts his warm hands on Ray's cheeks—so warm they burn. Fraser burns him.

Then Fraser is babbling at him, kissing his face, telling him all sorts of things—that it's all his fault, that he loves him, that he needs him to live, that he'll do whatever Ray wants—which proves that Fraser isn't in _his_ right mind, either.

Apparently Ray _plus_ hurt _equals_ insane Fraser.

Ray has never been so cold, and then he's too hot, and he knows he's sick because everything has that fever cast to it, and he drifts for a while then, aware they are mushing across the snow, aware that Fraser is panicking in a controlled way trying to get them somewhere safe and warm.

They must get there eventually, because Ray wakes up in a big, fluffy bed. He's drenched with sweat but he feels cool finally, except he can't stop coughing. And his arm is in a splint.

"Ray." Fraser moves into his sight line, and who would've thought you could make one single syllable sound so terrifyingly grateful?

"Yeah, Ben. You okay?"

Fraser laughs, an ugly laugh, like bleeding. "I'm fine, Ray. You're—it's you who've—"

"I'm fine, too." Except he's really not, yet, but he's not dead, and neither is Fraser, so that's something.

That's everything, really.

He's not sure where his rage went, but he just feels calm now. Fraser's hand is on his forehead pushing his hair back. Maybe he was pretending to take Ray's temperature that way, but his hand is staying, thumb stroking a little.

"I've been thinking, Ray."

"Yeah?"

"There must be some way—"

"There isn't.

"But we can try—"

"It sucks," Ray croaks. "But it's the way it is."

"I can't accept that." Fraser's voice is still soft, but totally determined. He moves away for a second and comes back with some ibuprofen and a glass of water that Ray swallows down gratefully. It cools his chest, too, which feels like an alien has recently busted its way out of it.

"I should tell you, Frase...thing is, I'm an asshole. I knew. I _knew_ but I didn't want to know, so I took it out on you."

"It's all right, Ray. I knew why. Do you think I'm any less...upset by the circumstances?"

"You mean _angry_."

"Dissatisfied."

"Angry. Torqued off."

"Frustrated." But Fraser is biting his cheek.

"Furious."

"Furious." Fraser nods. "Out of my head. Enraged that fate can't be kinder. But not...surprised."

No. Fraser wouldn't be surprised. He must be kind of getting used to it by now—life handing him crap and telling him to suck it up with a smile.

It makes Ray mad for him. For both of them, because Ray is supposed to be protecting him. And how is he supposed to do his job from three thousand miles away?

"I can't do it from three thousand miles, Ben. I couldn't even stand living across town from you. I was planning on moving you straight into my apartment. You and me and Dief and Spud the Wonder Turtle. We were gonna be a family."

He's lucky he has delirium as a ready excuse for the sap, but it looks like he doesn't need it, because Fraser just softens right up—Ray's never seen him so wide open. And then his face twists and Ray knows it's no good. It's no fucking good at all.

There's no escaping the math.

But Fraser looks thoughtful. He gets that frown he gets sometimes when he's about to suggest something impossible ( _"Of course we can swing from that chandelier directly behind Mr. Givens and catch him by complete surprise")_ and Ray almost gets hopeful, because if anyone can defy the laws of physics and trigonometry and stuff, it's Fraser.

Fraser says slowly, "What about—a time share arrangement of some kind?"

"Time share?"

"I've heard in the past about officers splitting their posts—usually it's older officers who are trying to escape the poorer weather months. But perhaps I could spend six months in the Territories and six months in Chicago?"

Rays heart beats crazy for a second. But six months is still not enough. That's half the year. Half a year apart would be _awful_. He starts to shake his head.

"And do you think...Ray, I hate to ask this, but during the summer months the weather really is quite beautiful here—"

Jesus, he shouldn't be making Fraser ask him. He should've thought of that. Ray clears his throat painfully, and Fraser passes back the glass of water. Ray notices Fraser's hand is shaking, so he talks quick.

"I could ask Welsh. I mean, maybe we could swing some sort of 'In the Interests of International Cooperation' deal. Or I suppose I could just take the time off without pay. As long as there'd be a job for me to go back to..."

Ben's face has been brightening the whole time he's been talking, and Ray is scared he's getting both their hopes up. But that's what hope is good for, right? To let you try.

"Maybe you can get me a phone—?

But Ben's mouth is busy on his right now, so Ray guesses he'll have to call Welsh later.

><

They work it out. The RCMP is so in love with Fraser at this juncture they'll agree to pretty much anything, including an exploratory post on Pluto. Fraser settles for six months in Chicago and six months in the Territories.

The Consulate in Chicago is totally chill now that Thatcher's gone. Fraser still stands guard duty, but only occasionally. Ray could almost believe he does it just to keep his statue skills all honed.

Three months, the good ones, they spend together at Fraser's posting in Fort Smith. It's almost a college town (population 2,500 or so) and mostly First Nations folk, so Fraser gets a lot of help doing his thing, and Ray lends a hand when he can do it without anyone's pumpkin pants getting in a bunch.

Fraser doesn't wear the funny pants up here, though. That's another crucial side benefit. He's always in the brown uniform, or layered up in wool and flannel and leather, and if Ray weren't already a total sucker for the guy, just seeing him all bearded and mussed up after two weeks of chasing a litterbug would do the trick.

Three months out of the year they're apart. And that sucks. So hard it hurts. So bad it's like bamboo torture. But considering the alternative, it's more than doable.

In point of fact, Ray _plus_ Fraser _equals_ pretty fucking happy. Times two.

  
.......................  
2007.07.19

**Author's Note:**

> (The title of this story is a reference to [the classic Science Fiction story](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Cold_Equations) by Tom Godwin.)
> 
> QOTD: "It's the live ones that make me squeamish." —Mort, _Mountie and Soul_


End file.
